Six Weeks Heavier
by Aris24
Summary: For a prompt: John breaks his ankle on a case and spends six weeks laid up. Sherlock can't be trusted to cook, so quite a lot of takeaway is brought into the flat over the next few weeks. This isn't without consequences for both of them. As Lestrade is quick to point out. Weight gain, feederism, fat appreciation and that sort of thing. Beginning Romance.


_**For a prompt I received from Seven-lbs on tumblr! Hope you enjoy it! :)**_

_**Prompt:** John breaks his ankle badly on a case and has to stay off his feet for six weeks. Due to a combo of takeaway and inactivity, he puts on a good bit of weight - and Sherlock actually puts on a bit of sympathy weight himself, without noticing. When they're finally out and about again, Lestrade definitely notices!_

John Watson grunted as he fell back onto the sofa. His breathing was rather more heavy than usual as it turned out that navigating the stairs up to 221B was a lot more bothersome when one was on crutches thanks to a broken ankle. He propped said crutches up against the side of the sofa where he could reach them when he needed them. For now, he lifted the cast containing his foot onto a pillow and lay back with a sigh. What he could really do with now, thought John, was a nice hot cup of tea. Trouble was the kitchen was rather far away. Luckily a solution in the form of his mad detective of a flatmate presented itself in a sudden swirl of coattails.

"Hey, Sherlock, mind putting the kettle on?" called John, looking over as the man entered.

"What?" said Sherlock briskly, clearly still thinking about the case. They had taken separate cabs home from the hospital since the detective had needed to report the outcome to the Yard to ensure the correct seemingly-mild-mannered-flower-shop-owner was put away for smuggling drugs into the country. Sherlock had discovered unusual compounds in the soil used to pot the plants and had forced a confrontation. They had ended up chasing the surprisingly spry shop keeper down from his rooftop garden, and John had jumped and landed very badly on his right ankle. Still, they'd managed to get the Yard on the suspect in the end.

"Tea?" repeated John, "Please? I could really do with a cup."

Sherlock blinked, seeming to come out of his reflections. "Normally you make it," he said.

"Yeah, normally I'm not on crutches though," said John pointedly, then sighed and made to get up. He hated feeling useless. "Look it's alright. I can make it. I'll just-"

"No, no. The doctor at the hospital said to keep you off that ankle as much as possible as it healed. I'll do it," said Sherlock, suddenly coming to the situation. He gave John a small flicker of a smile and went to the kitchen. John heard the sink run and a soft clinking of cups.

"Thanks, mate!" he called.

"Least I can do after leading you to your injury," said Sherlock, returning moments later with two mugs of tea and even a plate of biscuits. He blinked and dipped his head slightly, "I forgot to take our height differences into my calculations when I said to jump. I never intended you to come to harm for trusting my judgement."

John accepted his tea and sipped at it. Just how he liked it, perfect. He was rather surprised by the amount of actual guilt he could read in Sherlock's eyes for once.

"That's alright, Sherlock," said John, giving him a wry smile, "Should probably just look before I leap in future. And if guilt makes you bring me biscuits then that's a bonus." He winked and grabbed one of the chocolate Digestives Sherlock had picked out.

Sherlock's lips quirked into a small smile in return. "Your faith in me is not utterly shaken then?"

"Not completely, no," said John with a laugh. Sherlock's shoulders seemed to fall a few millimeters in response. John pushed the plate of biscuits towards the lanky man. "Go on. I haven't seen anything pass between your lips in the last twelve hours at least, you must be starving."

Sherlock took one as well and and went to curl up in his chair with his tea. They sat talking over the details of the case for a little while as the plate of biscuits before John was steadily emptied.

Soon it was time to think about dinner.

"I could cook for us tonight," offered Sherlock, but John almost immediately shot him down.

"Er, no. That's alright. I don't want anything I'm about to put into my mouth having any relation with your experiments," said John, looking up from the paper he had picked up.

The detective rolled his eyes. "Oh come on, John. I am capable of doing things in the kitchen that don't involve setting fire to things," he said, but there was a slight quirk to the corner of his mouth which implied he wasn't offended. "Sandwiches. For example."

John chuckled and shook his head. "Yeah no, thanks for the offer, but I think we both need a bit more than a humble sandwich tonight. Want to get a takeaway?"

Sherlock smiled slightly and pulled out his mobile. "Fine by me. I know a good Chinese nearby. Your usual?"

"Yeah, thanks," said John, going back to his paper. Six weeks worth of lay up and takeaway ahead of him. Well, he would probably get sick of it within a few days and let Sherlock try cooking under supervision.

But as the days rolled on, John learned that there were really very many different forms of takeaway out there and Sherlock seemed to know the owners of nearly every single one. Which proved to be a bit of a blessing in disguise really, because when he finally caved and allowed Sherlock a few attempts after the first week they all ended in burnt, raw, or just plain bizarre dishes that wound up being replaced by takeaway anyway. John knew that this wasn't technically healthy, but he figured Sherlock's kitchen experiments presented a more immediate threat to their health. So, they sampled Indian curries, Pad Thai, sweet and sour this and that, shrimp and pea pod stirfrys, teriyaki chicken, pizzas, and even a phenomenal burger place Sherlock had managed to find one evening. John constantly found himself in amazement at how good about meals Sherlock was suddenly becoming. He'd often return just after dinner time, somehow always when John was getting hungry and drop a couple of cartons of whatever he had collected during the day on the table before John who would thank him and tuck in. John figured this again had something to do with Sherlock's guilt surrounding his injury. It was sweet though. To see him coming home and well... caring for him day after day.

The rest of John's days were spent in relative tedium. He wasn't very mobile and his shoulder acted up if he was on his crutches too long, so he had taken to reading up on some medical journals, watching crap telly, or sending emails about referrals or consultations from the surgery to pass the time when Sherlock wasn't home. The result was that John was spending quite a lot of his days in his jim jams. They just seemed more comfortable. His cotton pajama bottoms were infinitely more forgiving of prolonged sitting than his jeans were. Especially of late they had been feeling rather tight. Well, a bit of weight gain was bound to happen. It wasn't anything that wouldn't drop off again once things were back to normal, John thought as he tucked into the rather excellent fettuccine Alfredo Sherlock had brought home from Angelo's for a bit of added variety. He decided not to fuss about it. He appreciated Sherlock's efforts to care for him.

And really, that was something that had changed as well. They seemed warmer towards each other now, friendlier and less likely to get annoyed at the other's antics (Or 3 am violin concertos). Perhaps they had found some sweet sort of domestic bliss in Sherlock's providing for John and John's relief at having at least something exciting to hear about at the end of the day. Still, there seemed to be a lot more touches between them now. Sherlock would often curl up beside John on the sofa as the doctor typed choppily at his keyboard, lean in over him to point things out, allow their hands to touch as he handed over tea or food. He had even offered to swap bedrooms to make things easier for John. John had declined for reasons he wasn't quite certain of, but Sherlock had then insisted on helping John up the stairs every night, a hand placed carefully on the small of his back, one linked around his free wrist to steady him. It was a bit odd, but John found himself enjoying those quiet touches more and more. Well, that was another thing he could think about once things got back to normal, John decided. Until then,

"Hello, John."

"Hey, Sherlock. What are we having tonight?"

John was lounging on the sofa, aimlessly flicking through a few online movies when he heard his flatmate come home. He sat up a bit more, turning to face him.

Sherlock set a plastic bag with two or three containers inside onto the table. "Fish and chips from two blocks down," the detective reported, swinging off his coat with a flourish and going to hang it up along with his scarf.

"Mm, perfect. Thanks, love," said John, setting his laptop aside and leaning forward to unpack their food. He looked up to find Sherlock staring at him.

"What's the matter?" asked the doctor, popping one of the chips into his mouth. And God those were _terrific_.

Sherlock blinked, opened his mouth once before closing it again. "You... You called me," said Sherlock, looking terrified, no hopeful? No, no, confused before taking a breath and repeating himself cautiously, "You said 'Love'."

John felt heat rise in his cheeks. "Oh... er. Sorry. Must've just slipped out," he said quickly, turning his attention back to his fish and chips. Sherlock hesitated for a moment, then sank onto the sofa beside John and opened his own dinner. They ate in silence for a while, the only sounds in the room those of smacking lips or sucking fingers as they ate their way through the flaky fish and hot crisp chips.

"John-"

"Sherlock-"

John chuckled and shook his head, glancing over at the detective. "Look, I'm sorry. It won't-"

"That's not what I was going to say," said Sherlock quickly, "I was just... It's fine. It's all fine. I don't mind."

"Oh, er, good," said John, finding it easier to enjoy another chip than look Sherlock in the eye. "That's good. So was the fish, thanks."

Sherlock nodded, then his eyes flicked back up to John's face. "Do you mind if I, er?"

"What?"

Suddenly they were kissing. And then just as John's panic had subsided enough for the molten pleasure to come through, they weren't.

"Interesting," purred Sherlock, giving John a cheeky grin, "The experiment seems to provide some contradictory evidence to the subject's previous statements."

"Shut up," said John, and then pulled the detective to his lips again.

After they had broken apart and the last chips were consumed, Sherlock sat cuddled into John's side, a palm on the doctor's warm full middle.

"I think 'love' is now an appropriate for of address, do you agree?" murmured Sherlock from where his head was resting on John's shoulder.

"Yeah," said John, grinning as well.

Soon after, John's cast was removed and he was allowed to resume light use of his legs again. Sherlock immediately took advantage of this to drag him gleefully to a crime scene the very next morning. Once there, Sherlock immediately dashed off to have a thorough look at the corpse of the unfortunate woman. John hobbled over to watch alongside DI Lestrade. The silver-haired DI chuckled as he turned to John.

"Blimey, what happened to you two?" he asked, grinning.

"What do you mean?" demanded John, perhaps a bit too defensively. He didn't think it was that obvious that the two of them had recently gotten together. Usually it took someone like Sherlock to work things out from a look.

Lestrade simply shook his head and chuckled again.

"I mean, I was surprised enough to see Sherlock had put on a few pounds, but I didn't think you'd both be packing it on," he said, stuffing his hands into his pockets, still smiling as if this was somehow amusing.

"Come off it, Greg, it's not that noticeable," said John, refusing to acknowledge the heat rising in his face, "I was confined to the flat and on crutches for six weeks. I was bound to put on a bit of-"

"Bit more than a bit," continued Lestrade, still smiling.

John spluttered, then balled his own fists in his pockets to keep himself from punching the git in the nose. He stared resolutely at Sherlock. And well... maybe he had a point. Sherlock definitely wasn't the spindly bloke he'd moved in with anymore. It was hard for John to notice, but surely the detective's face was a little fuller, his figure thicker. No, hang on, there was definitely the beginnings of a round little tum under his jacket button, making it puff out a bit more. John bit his lower lip and looked down. He himself, well, he definitely had grown a bit of a gut. No wonder his jeans had been rather hard to button. He had a strange urge to prod at the belly blooming out under his jumper.

"Er, okay," said John, looking back at Lestrade who raised his eyebrows and shrugged, "Bit more than a bit maybe. _Maybe!_ Would you stop laughing? There's been a murder!"

That only seemed to make Lestrade laugh even harder. John shook his head then joined in.

"Oi! Either shut up or go away," bellowed Sherlock from across the police line, "You two are far too distracting!"

Their laughter died down to a chuckle, then John cleared his throat and sighed.

"Oh, well, I'd better go see what he's found," said John, ducking under the line with a slight grunt and going to join Sherlock. Lestrade nodded and turned to go speak to the two forensic technicians on duty, a small grin still on his face.

"What were you two on about?" snapped Sherlock as he examined the dead woman's fingernails with his pocket magnifying glass.

"Oh, he just noticed... something," said John mildly, peering down at the body as well.

Sherlock snorted, not looking up.

"Something about us," continued John.

"Ugh."

"And the effects of takeaway-"

"Dull."

"On the waist lines of consulting detectives and army doctors."

Sherlock looked up, then blinked rapidly as he processed that. His hand slid to his middle.

John chuckled. "Don't worry. You're fine, love. I don't really mind. Do you?"

Sherlock chewed his lower lip, then his eyes flicked up and down John's body. He smiled softly.

"No," he replied, "Not at all. Dim sum alright for tonight?"

John grinned. "Absolutely."


End file.
